


Fairy Dust

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Established Relationship, M/M, Smut, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Pan Night at Homolulu's! Glitter, fairies, pirates and Buttery Nipples. Also, sex. And more glitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairy Dust

“Oh god,” Deniz says, for about the twenty-third time, although to his credit, he does sound at least as many parts amused as he does horrified. Roman cranes his neck with some difficulty from where he’s firmly wedged in between a crush of other hopefuls trying to reach the bar. He finds his boyfriend staring, slightly open-mouthed, after a chubby middle-aged guy wearing fluffy bear ears, a loin cloth, and rather little else. Strapped to his shoulders, somewhat incongruous against a generous patch of back hair, is a flimsy pair of translucent crepe-and-wire wings that shimmer in the pulsing multi-coloured lights.

Roman chortles. “Well, I guess he’s covering his bases. All he’s missing is a parrot and he’d be good for pirates, too.”

“Tell me again,” Deniz says, voice sounding faint beneath the music. “Why did I agree to this?”

Roman narrows his eyes and holds up one hand, ticking off items with his fingers as he lists them. “Because I sat through an interminable night of playing sports games on the Wii at your friend’s place the other night; because you complained that we’re so boring and stay in all the time; because there was no way I was going to miss Homolulu’s Peter Pan Night; and because I told you that if you didn’t come along, I’d spend all night getting accosted by some smouldering Captain Hook type in dark corners, _and I’d let him_.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Deniz rolls his eyes elaborately, although he’s grinning. “I don’t suppose if I told you I’ll watch Moulin Rouge _and_ The Sound of Music with you over the weekend and not complain once, we could go hit a normal club?”

Roman pretends to think. “Hmm. The sing-along version?”

Seeing Deniz’s eyes pop halfway out of his head is always a sight worth seeing. It’s amazing, really, how little that takes, considering the long-practised routine of cool he loves to surround himself with. Roman has to admit that it gives him almost devilish pleasure to rattle it at every turn. He grins broadly and pokes Deniz in the chest. “Forget it, Deniz Öztürk. This _is_ a normal club, and we’re going to spend a normal night being a normal, though extraordinarily hot, couple in it. And if you don’t stop moaning, I’ll put myself up for the Lost Boys auction later, see if I don’t. Now stay put. I’ll be right back.”

He turns back to the bar and starts to weasel his way through the crowd sideways, aided by a lifetime’s practice at twisting himself into unlikely positions and a natural knack for fitting into small spaces.

“What if _I_ get accosted by some smouldering Captain Hook type?” Deniz demands from behind him. Pushing further on, Roman merely lifts an arm and waves back at him dismissively. “In that case, don’t let him leave before I get back!” he yells over his shoulder.

***

He has to take the long way round the bar on the way back to escape the crush of people; he could have made it through, but not with drinks unspilled. So it is that he runs into the girl, dressed in a sequined, bright-green dress that barely covers her crotch. Her short, blonde hair is spiked into fantastical platinum peaks, and the wings on her back bounce merrily as she steps in front of him with a mischievous grin.

“Do you believe in fairies, darling?” she asks cheerfully, and before Roman knows what’s happening, she’s shaking something in her hand and he is suddenly surrounded by a dazzling rain of glitter. He can feel it settle on his bare skin where his tank top exposes it, brushing his shoulders and arms, kissing his face cool as snowflakes. He shakes himself, instinctively raising the two glasses in his hands to keep them out of harm’s way, then snorts. “I’ll be picking that out of unusual places for weeks, won’t I?”

Tinker Bell grins at him, then pushes something into his hand. “You’ll be alright. Think happy thoughts.” It’s a tiny, transparent sampler tube of lube – _glittery_ lube, in rainbow colours. Roman laughs, kisses the air next to the girl’s face, and continues on, shoving the tube into his pocket. He has to sidestep a few dancers who have come too far off the dance floor and are flinging their limbs about with little regard for bystanders. It’s then that he fetches up against a solid body and stumbles. “ _Scheiße_!” he exclaims when he feels liquid spilling over his hand, but it’s just a little, and most of the drink is saved. “Sorry,” he adds, looking up, then stops short, blinking.

“Not a problem.” Deep voice, darkly amused. Fake black curls spill generously down the front of a rich red velvet overcoat with gold buttons; a tricorn shadows a rugged, handsome face with a thick nose obviously broken several times; a moustache with elaborately curled ends droops above full lips. Roman can’t quite suppress the sudden urge to laugh. “My apologies… Captain.”

Hook smiles lazily at him, revealing very white teeth under his fake moustache. “I said it was no problem, didn’t I?” Black eyes roam appreciatively up and down the length of Roman’s body. He knows it’s displayed to good effect tonight, having chosen the dark blue tank specifically for the way it flatters his shoulders and contrasts with his pale skin, and the jeans because they’re his tightest. He has to admit he wasn’t prepared to be ogled like a schoolboy by a sinister stranger, though.

“I see you’ve had a run-in with one of the Tinker Bells,” smirks Hook, lifting one elegant hand to trail a finger down Roman’s upper arm, smearing the rose-golden dust that has settled there. “It suits you.”

Roman cocks his head, not so much bemused by the stranger’s presumptuous touch – it _is_ a club, after all; guys come here to pull – as by the deep murmur of the voice, with just a hint of accent he can’t place. He peers closer, trying to make out the man’s features, but it’s difficult with the wig and the massive tricorn, not to mention the flickering lights. “Have we met?”

Too late he realises that it sounds like the cheapest pick-up line in history. The pirate grins, showing his unnervingly white teeth again, and steps up close, into Roman’s personal space. “Would you like to find out?” he tops the cheesiness of Roman’s line, leaning in.

Roman snorts, and sidesteps the man when he reaches for his hair. “Sorry, Captain. Otherwise engaged.” He nods, throws the pirate a smile, and makes to move on.

A hand closes on his shoulder, holding him back. “That’s a shame.” Roman catches a whiff of cologne, too strong and sweet, as Hook pulls him in, the other hand – shouldn’t it be a hook? – sliding around his waist from behind. Roman doesn’t shake him off lest he spill the drinks he’s still holding, but he does lean away. “I mean it, mate. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Hook takes no notice, or pretends not to. “Are you going to be in the Lost Boys auction?” he asks, head dipped close so one elaborate end of his moustache brushes Roman’s cheek. “I might be inclined to put in a bid.”

Roman rolls his shoulders, trying to wriggle out of the embrace. “Not this year, darling,” he says firmly. “There’s someone who’d be a bit pissed off by that, if you catch my drift.”

Hook smiles darkly, opening his mouth to respond even as his hand slides further south on Roman’s back; and then another voice cuts through the combined noise of music and drunken conversation, familiar and challenging and sounding very much more than just a _bit_ pissed off.

“Hey! Get your dirty hands off my boyfriend, asshole!”

Captain Hook loosens his grip on Roman’s waist enough so he can step away, and turns towards Deniz with brows raised. “Is there a problem?”

Deniz doesn’t have the pirate’s bulk, but he’s still taller by half a head, and never easily intimidated. “Yeah, there’s a fucking problem, jerkface,” he starts, fists already half raised, and Roman quickly inserts himself between the two, not keen on seeing this display of angry protectiveness, intriguing as it is, mount into any real trouble.

“Calm down, Deniz, it’s okay, he wasn’t…”

“He had his sweaty paws all over you!”

“He wasn’t exactly protesting,” Hook interjects smoothly, and Roman throws him a glare over his shoulder. “‘No’ doesn’t count as protest on the Jolly Roger? -Deniz, no, _leave it_!” Deniz is already trying to push past him, his face a study in righteous fury, and while a small part of Roman – okay, he concedes to himself, not _that_ small a part – is secretly delighted with this show of unaccustomed possessiveness, there are better ways he can think of to spend the evening than watching his boyfriend swap knuckle sandwiches with an overly perfumed swashbuckler.

“Deniz!” he says firmly, stepping up into the space against Deniz’s chest, close enough that in order to get past him, Deniz would have to shove him away. “It’s alright. He made a pass, I said no thanks, we’re good. No harm done, okay? And he was just about to leave,” he adds, voice raised a bit. Thank god, Captain Hook takes the hint. He makes them an exaggeratedly polite bow and steps back.

“Can’t fault a man for trying. He’s lovely. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Deniz glowers after him, his expression clearly hinting that he’s still eager to follow and force the issue. “Bastard. Who the hell does he think-“

He actually takes half a step forward as if in pursuit, so Roman hastily moves with him, staying in front of him. “No no no no. Deniz. Stay.”

Deniz frowns down at him. “He was assaulting you.”

“He was doing no such thing, and he’s gone anyway, so leave it.”

“But-“

“Look, sweetheart, you’ve got two options. Go after the pirate, break his nose, get thrown out of the club, maybe end up at the police station for battery, and let me tell you, jailhouse sex is not _nearly_ as appealing as they make it look in porn flicks. Or stay here, enjoy your Buttery Nipple and then let me drag you down to the dance floor so you can put your hands all over me, and I’m not going to say no to _anything_ you want to do to me, okay? Does that sound better?” He grins, watching as the frown melts slowly off Deniz’s face, replaced by grudging amusement and an all too obvious eagerness. After another moment’s hesitation, Deniz’s wide shoulders relax slightly. He takes the proffered glass to sniff cautiously at the creamy-golden liquid inside.

“Buttery Nipple?” he inquires, mouth twitching slightly. Roman attempts a leer.

“Why, yes. I thought I’d get something I already know you’re fond of.” He slides a hand across his own chest with studied nonchalance, nails dragging against the raised pebble of one nipple under his tight shirt.

“Yeah well, yours aren’t buttery, thank god,” Deniz mutters, but his eyes follow the motion as if unable to resist. Then he stops short, for the first time taking in the dusting of multi-coloured glitter in Roman’s hair, on his shoulders, arms and shirt. He swallows visibly.

“Where… uh, where did that come from?”

Roman explains about Tinker Bell. Deniz laughs openly at him, but Roman doesn’t miss the way his dark eyes keep sliding back to his exposed skin again and again, following the trailing smears of glitter. His tongue darts out unconsciously, licking his lower lip. Catching Roman watching him, he quickly ducks his face into his drink. “What’s in this?”

Roman rolls his eyes, feeling utterly smitten and amused. “Butterscotch Schnapps and Bailey’s. Don’t be such a girl. It’s nice.”

Deniz glowers at him from under dark lashes, but takes a sip, looking comically surprised when he swallows. “Dude. It _is_ good.”

“ _Dude_ , I told you,” says Roman, poking out his tongue, and Deniz grins.

“You’re seriously twelve.”

“Uh huh. Says the man who was just about to go pick a fight with a pirate.”

“He was groping you.”

“And you were jealous.”

“Was not!”

Roman laughs out loud at Deniz’s indignant tone and expression. “Were too. You practically had green steam coming out your ears. It was very sexy, by the way,” he adds slyly, and Deniz snorts.

“You have a warped idea of sexy.”

“I am a man of very refined tastes, I’ll have you know. It’s sheer blind luck that you snagged my attention.”

Sipping their drinks in between bantering, they lean side by side against the railing of the stairs that lead down to the dance floor. Once, Roman reaches out to run his hand through Deniz’s thick, dark hair, messing up his careful gel job. Deniz howls in protest and launches a counter-attack, trapping Roman against the railing and tickling him fiercely until they’re both covered in the silly glitter stuff and Roman collapses against Deniz’s chest in breathless laughter, begging mercy. Deniz cups his hands around Roman’s cheeks then, thumbs tilting up his chin, and kisses him, sweet and unhurried, tongue soaked in the rich, creamy taste of the drink. Roman dares to respond more provocatively, chasing that taste back into Deniz’s mouth, licking and sucking on the tempting fullness of Deniz’s lower lip until he moans. Hands closing on Roman’s upper arms, he leans back, flushed and breathing hard.

“So what about this dance floor where I can put my hands all over you?” he demands, mouth curving, and Roman nearly says, _To hell with the dance floor – I’m having fun here_. But then he remembers how eager he was to have this, Deniz’s body moving against him in tune with music, and he nods, stealing another quick kiss from those full lips before he takes Deniz’s hand and pulls him towards the crush of gyrating bodies down the stairs.

***

Roman loves watching Deniz discover new things. In fact, even knowing that his tendency to obsess about all things Deniz-related could become a little problematic in the long run, he is unable to help himself. The way Deniz’s initial caution gives way to boundless enthusiasm is exuberant, heartbreakingly charming, and utterly addictive.

From the start, Deniz has given off this vibe of a scalded child, eyeing his mug of hot chocolate with cautious suspicion, desire plain but wary. Roman knows it’s ridiculous, but his need to undo that wariness, to lavish Deniz with attention and spoil him rotten – tell him that yes, he can have all the chocolate in the world and more – is nigh on irresistible.

It’s the same with dancing. He’s seen Deniz dance before – joyfully and wildly, long limbs flying every which way – so it’s not _entirely_ new, but this is: the two of them together beneath the strobing, multi-hued lights, surrounded by a cheerfully varied selection of pirates and fairies, Indians and Lost Boys mixed in with the regular crowd. Glitter is everywhere, trapped in the dancers’ hair and on their sweat-slick skin; it shimmers enticingly in the semi-darkness, catching errant beams of light in a dazzling variety of colour.

The pulse of the bass is deep and visceral, matched to the heartbeat of the crowd, which bobs and sways like a single strange, unified creature on the dance floor. There’s not a lot of room to move, but even so it’s exhilarating to watch Deniz get into it; watch as his moves, initially awkward, loosen all of a sudden into self-assurance and carefree abandon. He pulls Roman close and mouths something against his hair that he doesn’t catch.

“What?” Roman shouts over the music, but Deniz only shakes his head at him and smiles, a wide, completely unguarded smile of such sincere sweetness that it melts Roman’s heart. Giving up on conversation, he crowds up close against Deniz, luxuriating in the relative intimacy of the dance floor, surrounded by the like-minded, where it’s acceptable, even encouraged, to do this: to slide his hands beneath Deniz’s t-shirt as they move together, tracing smooth stomach muscles and small, pebbled nipples. He catches Deniz’s gasp of reaction in another kiss, creamy with the taste of butterscotch. He turns in the tight circle of Deniz’s arms and works his hips, deliberately pushing back into the cradle of Deniz’s pelvis and smiling at a twitch of reaction there. Whipping around on tiptoes to face Deniz again, he does a slow shimmy down the length of Deniz’s body and back up again while lifting his arms. In the strobe light changing from green to purple to blue, Deniz’s eyes are glued to him, filled with barely concealed lust and something very like awe. Roman basks in it, for one blissful moment knowing himself flawless and treasured. It’s so simple, this motion based on nothing more complicated than heartbeat. The music reverberates deep and familiar in his blood, a high, synthetic song track incidental to the deep pounding of the bass. Then Deniz is dragging him closer, lips hot against the side of his neck, hands all over him as their hips move together in short, rhythmic circles.

Roman takes a breath and pulls the wandering hands to his waist, then smiles up into questioning dark eyes. “Hold on?”

Deniz nods, a bit confused, but his hands tighten automatically, spreading out along his flanks. Roman slowly raises his arms up into the familiar overhead stretch of fifth position, fingertips barely touching; then, still smiling into Deniz’s eyes, he starts to bend backwards, torso slowly arching towards a horizontal position, and then further towards the ground in the taut shape of a reversed U. His legs stay pressed against Deniz’s, hips still swaying in time with the music. Deniz exclaims in muffled alarm when Roman’s weight dips backwards, and the hands on his hips clutch him tighter, holding him in place as instructed. Roman arches further, just a little bit more, until his raised fingertips actually brush the floor behind him. The world is upside down, a garish flutter of bizarrely dressed creatures and the flash of glitter everywhere. Wild jets of coloured light spill across the dance floor in unpredictable patterns. The tight arc of his bent back pushes his pelvis forwards, flush against Deniz’s, anchored by his grip. He can feel Deniz stirring in response to the pressure. Head still upside down, he smiles, pushing his hips forward a little harder. Deniz’s fingers have curled further around his hips to support him, digging into his buttocks. They’re still dancing, sort of – gyrating slowly on the spot, Roman’s body carried along by Deniz’s motions as he grinds into him, short, slow thrusts forward in blatant suggestion.

From his blurry, inverted perspective, he can see faces turned their way, speculative and leering. On the platform of the steps that lead down to the bar, a lone figure leans against the steel railing. It’s too far to tell his expression, but the long, dark wig and the red coat are unmistakable.

Roman grins. _Well, while you’re watching…_

He coils his muscles suddenly, catapulting himself back upright. He pushes off the ground in the same motion and wraps his legs around Deniz’s waist even as his arms come round his neck. Despite the lack of warning, Deniz catches him as neatly as if it was choreographed, hands shifting automatically under his thighs to support his weight; he even does a little half-spin to absorb the impact, like they’ve done this a thousand times. There are a few gasps around them, and some whoops and whistles of appreciation, but neither of them pays the spectators any heed. Roman feels much more drunk than he is, caught up in the all-permeating heartbeat of the music and the perfect harmony of their shared motion. He hooks his legs tightly about Deniz’s hips and beams down into his raised face, delighted to find an answering, fierce grin there. Deniz is still moving them, seemingly unhindered by Roman’s weight. His lips are parted slightly, full and inviting in the twisting pulses of light. Roman doesn’t even try to resist. He brings his mouth down over Deniz’s, tasting the sweet burn of the Buttery Nipple. With a growl that Roman feels more than hears, Deniz slides his tongue into his mouth, one hand wandering up over his thigh and his back, to dig into the damp hair at the base of his neck. The motion unseats him slightly; reluctantly, Roman slides his legs down, dropping back onto his own feet. Deniz isn’t letting go of him, though, lips and hands roaming. Roman is pulled up tight enough against Deniz’s swaying hips that he can clearly feel his erection outlined in denim.

“Mhmmm,” he purrs appreciatively into Deniz’s mouth, pushing into the bulge, smirking a bit when Deniz tenses and gasps.

Still, it comes as a bit of a shock when Deniz – Deniz who’s usually all over him in private but still so shy amongst other people – tears his lips away from Roman’s mouth to slide them along his jaw to his ear, murmuring in a low, breathless voice, “I really want to fuck you right now.”

Roman tilts his head back and raises his brows. “Oh yeah? Right now?” he teases, even though his heart is beating faster. Even in the flickering strobes of light, Deniz’s blush is clearly evident, but he doesn’t look away. His hands dig into Roman’s hair, forcing his head back. “Well, not right _here_ ,” he amends, mouth close enough that they’re breathing the same air. He licks at Roman’s bottom lip, then closes on it, sucking gently. Roman hums in response, feeling his own jeans grow tighter by the second.

“Is there…” Deniz hesitates, one hand curled around Roman’s neck, hot and a little damp. “I mean, can we… is there someplace…?”

Heroically, Roman suppresses the laugh that threatens to bubble out of him; he’s entirely delighted, but somehow he doesn’t think “you’re too adorable” will go over well as an explanation. He places one more kiss on Deniz’s mouth, then pulls away, smiling reassuringly when Deniz looks at him with wounded accusation. “Come on, then.”

***

Homolulu’s back rooms look like they’ve been designed by someone with a head full of crack and a skewed idea of geometry: a seemingly random maze of corridors and dark, doorless cubicles of various sizes. The walls and floors are covered in a lurid jungle motif: curling green plants and tree trunks, orchids in garish colours, and the odd exotic creature peeking through the dense underbrush – a huge butterfly here, a tree frog there; one corridor even displays the shaded stripes of a prowling tiger. Roman pushes past other wanderers in the narrow corridor, Deniz close on his heels. There are sounds coming from some of the tiny rooms, moans and murmurs and the wet slap of flesh against flesh. As recently as a few weeks ago, Roman wouldn’t have dreamed of bringing Deniz back here, driven as he still was by a strange urge to protect him. Even now, he still looks back more than once, just to make sure Deniz hasn’t gone skittish on him, hasn’t frozen in sudden terror. But Deniz only grins at him lopsidedly, and once stops their progression to push Roman back against a velvet-covered wall, tongue slick and sweet inside his mouth and long, lean body pressing into him until Roman has to protest, promising that they’ll be alone – well, relatively so – in a second.

He ducks into one of the tiny rooms near the back, pulling Deniz in behind him, then stops and waits, still entirely prepared for his boyfriend to make a sudden dash for it. But Deniz spares only the briefest of glances for their surroundings – no door, just the relative intimacy three walls can provide, all greens and shadows, the jungle plant pattern only somewhat obscured by the dimness of the light – before he tugs on Roman’s hand, hauling him in for a kiss.

“Come here a lot?” he asks in between urgent kisses, amusement clear in his voice as he pulls at Roman’s tank top, shoving it up high enough that he can run his hands over Roman’s bare chest, his fingers spreading glitter in their wake.

“Not lately,” Roman replies, then exhales sharply when Deniz lowers his head and goes straight for his nipples with fervent enthusiasm, lips closing around one of the little erect nubs. His hands have already dropped to the top button on Roman’s jeans. He throws back his head, biting his lip at the sharp spark of pleasure that shoots straight to his groin. For a few seconds, nothing takes precedence over the sight and sensation of Deniz sucking his nipples into hard, tender points, eliciting harsh moans from him with every tug and pull. Eventually, though, Deniz draws back, cheeks flushed and mouth reddened and moist. He licks his lips, hands trailing up and down Roman’s ribs.

“Do you have, uhm…” It’s endearing, really, that after all the things they’ve done together – and really, by now, there isn’t much they _haven’t_ done – Deniz can still blush over something as innocent as preparation; can still have trouble saying the word “lube”. Digging in his pocket, Roman grins triumphantly as he pulls out the small tube of glitter-lube. “Voila, chéri.”

Deniz stares at it for a second, then laughs, reaching for it; but as quickly, his face falls, dark eyes going near-anguished. “I haven’t got… do you have a condom?”

“Fuck. No.” Roman digs through his pockets anyway, already knowing it’s futile. There are some in his wallet, but he didn’t bring that, and he didn’t think to transfer some to his trouser pockets, because he’s a moron, clearly.

They stare at each other in the half-light, frozen in indecision. Well, it’s a gay club, Roman thinks, surely someone could help them out. But the thought of elbowing his way back to the bar, or even stepping out of the cubicle to accost some random stranger or go check the dispenser in the toilets, leaving Deniz here, seems like agony in the making, and really…

Suddenly, Deniz is right there, up in his space, full lips brushing his forehead as his arms come around Roman’s waist, possessive and warm. “We could,” he starts, then ducks his head, embarrassed again. “I mean, could we? Without?”

Roman licks his lips, mouth gone suddenly dry. “I got tested last summer,” he answers hoarsely, “and I haven’t had anyone since but you. But if you… I mean, you were a… you shouldn’t take your chances. I can go get some. From… somewhere. Really, Deniz…”

“Fuck that, you’re not leaving,” Deniz murmurs into his ear, lips and breath hot, nudging a knee between Roman’s legs. “I trust you.” And really, that’s stupid, all sorts of stupid – _he_ knows he’s clean, but Deniz shouldn’t just take his word for it, damn it. He’s too trusting by half, but it’s hard to think when he’s nibbling at Roman’s lips like they’re some sort of candy, tongue sliding heavy and urgent between them, like he’s dreaming of fucking him already. And really, it’s okay, because he _is_ clean, but tomorrow he’s going to give Deniz a lecture and a half…

“Oh to hell with it,” he breathes, sliding his fingers into Deniz’s hair. He tugs harshly, pulling him closer, into his mouth, against his body. Deniz’s hands grow feverish, tugging at his bunched-up tank top, nearly tearing it in his haste to get it off. In between the awkward slide and pull of discarded clothes, their mouths collide harshly. The contrast of full, soft lips and aggressive teeth makes Roman’s head swim. Deniz nibbles and bites a trail along his lips and the line of his jaw, pausing to swirl his tongue around the sensitive curve of Roman’s ear until he whimpers and turns his head, blindly seeking Deniz’s lips. They tug at each other’s trousers as they kiss. Sliding his hand into Deniz’s open fly, Roman can feel his moan as he swallows it, can almost taste it curling on his tongue. He grins into the kiss and closes his hand on Deniz’s eager cock, tugging it free to slide his palm down the length of the hard, damp flesh. He gives it a few shallow strokes, luxuriating in the feel of the soft, heated skin, and feels absurdly pleased as it lengthens and hardens even further in his hand, swelling into his touch.

“Fuck,” Deniz breathes, his own hands closing hard on Roman’s ribs, sliding up his chest. “That’s the general idea,” Roman replies between kisses, tugging playfully on Deniz’s cock. Once again, he has to fight a laugh, made giddy by the thought that they’re actually doing this. Not only has he managed to drag his boyfriend out to his favourite club but into a dingy back room for a quick, dirty fuck. It should make him feel like a right old lecher, he supposes, but it doesn’t; if anything, he feels like they’re a pair of naughty schoolboys sneaking off to grope each other in a free period. Indeed, it’s like he hasn’t been this horny since he was sixteen, his cock feeling heavy and full to bursting inside his briefs.

Deniz makes an “mpphmm” sort of noise into his mouth, lips soft and demanding all at once, kissing him like he’ll quite literally die if he doesn’t. He seems to have grown extra hands. They’re feverishly all over Roman, grabbing his hair to pull him close, practically ripping off his jeans and underwear, brushing over his shoulders, his nipples, his hips. Fingers dig into his buttocks, clutching him hard. For a brief, delicious moment, his erection brushes against Deniz’s, hardness to leaking hardness. Then he’s suddenly whirled around, Deniz’s weight pressing into his back as he pushes Roman up against the wall with its lurid jungle pattern. Soft velvet brushes torturously against his already oversensitised nipples and cock.

“Come on,” he murmurs urgently, resting his raised arms against the wall and flattening out his palms. He hears Deniz fumble with the tube of lube, hears him curse shakily, and then slippery wetness drips smooth and cool down his crack, easing the way for the fumbling intrusion of Deniz’s fingers. Roman closes his eyes, sinking back onto the penetrating digits with a deep sigh of satisfaction, loving the hesitant invasion, the slight awkwardness that so characterises Deniz whenever he does this. Roman treasures this clumsy concern, all the more so because he can’t wait to shatter it, can’t wait for the moment when Deniz forgets himself and such notions of chivalry disappear, overwhelmed by a frenzy of lust and the need to be inside him right now.

Not long now, Roman thinks, placing his feet firmly. He’s carefully stretched, fingers curling inside him to brush against his prostate, setting off a sharp throb of lust that coils inside him in anticipation. He hears the wet slap of lube being applied to cock, a few sliding motions of spreading it around, and Deniz’s accompanying hiss. Then the probing fingers inside him disappear, replaced by the hard, slippery jut of Deniz’s erection, hot and demanding against his exposed rear.

Roman braces himself. Deniz is more than generously equipped; even with lube, willingness and preparation, it usually hurts a bit at first. Roman has grown used to it – has, in fact, come to like it, somewhat unexpectedly. He’s never really understood why anyone would get off on pain, until this happened: this boy, this thing between them that’s too intense for explanation. He gets it now: the keen edge of anticipation, that first moment of almost-panic, animal reaction: _no, too much, too large, can’t, hurts, take it out_ ; and then that exhilarating moment when he breathes deep and through it, feels himself physically taking a step beyond and above the pain, accepting it, and then it still hurts, but it’s a different pain, dark and intimate and _his_ somehow, because he invited it, spread himself open to it and let it in, making it his.

Even so, the first invasion still feels huge and impossible. An involuntary gasp escapes him, and Deniz stops halfway in, fingers clenched hard around his hipbones. “Are you okay?” he asks, sounding desperate and worried. When Roman doesn’t reply immediately, he starts to withdraw. “Roman?”

He reaches back to clasp one hand on Deniz’s hip, halting his backwards motion. “No,” he murmurs, shuddering, and breathes deep. “No, come on, take me.”

He can feel Deniz’s desire coiled as tightly as a spring about to snap, but he’s still hesitant. “Roman… are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” he manages, and when Deniz remains frozen for another agonising moment, he tips back his head and twists it enough to brush his lips against his boyfriend’s. “ _Schatz_ ,” he whispers into the damp uncertainty of Deniz’s mouth, “I want you inside me, now. Come on. Give it to me. Make me scream.”

The sound Deniz makes is almost a sob. Head still twisted around, Roman plants a quick kiss on his lips, open-mouthed and sloppy, before he turns back to face the wall again, hands unconsciously clenching into fists. He can feel the sudden bunching of muscles behind him. Deniz’s hands come down and slide in between his legs, digging hard into his thighs, both spreading and lifting; and then Roman is nearly rocked off his feet by the supporting hands and the powerful thrust inside him that opens and enters him mercilessly, sliding all the way in until he can feel Deniz’s balls, hot and heavy, against the underside of his buttocks.

He does scream then, breathlessly, equal parts lust and agony, and it occurs to him to wonder, for a brief, hazy moment, what this means. In what strange, alarming ways is he being undone by this clueless boy, unwittingly pulled apart and fit back together in ways that aren’t quite right – making him crave confrontation, cherish pain?

But the sensation is too immediate and demanding to leave any room for contemplations of what it means. A slow, hot burn, agonising and delicious at the same time, Deniz’s slick, throbbing cock pushing inside him, renders him defenceless. Roman’s fingers scrabble uselessly against the soft wall tapestry as he’s stretched to capacity, and then further. “Oh my _god_ ,” Deniz all but whimpers, and if he had any breath to spare, Roman would agree. Beyond the pain, he knows there’s a place that’s nothing but sharp, unadulterated bliss, and he’s nearly there. With a small growl, he pushes back deliberately, meeting Deniz’s next thrust halfway, and Deniz moans as if he’s the one in pain.

“So tight… fuck, how the hell are you still this tight!” he pants, hissing air through his teeth as he pulls back again. Once more he pauses, damp forehead dropping down against the top of Roman’s tense shoulder. For a brief moment of odd, concentrated stillness, the only motion about him is the slight expansion of his chest against Roman’s back and the fingers of his right hand, stroking his hip in small, strangely tentative circles. Trying to prepare for the next invasion, Roman gathers his breath, consciously relaxing trembling muscles. The moment stretches, becomes torturous, and he’s about to twist his head to egg Deniz on, say something encouraging, _make him move already_ , when Deniz finally lifts his head off Roman’s shoulder and draws a deep, shuddering breath. His palms curl around Roman’s hipbones, warm and reassuring. He starts to slide back inside, then stops and shifts just a little, adjusting the angle on the final push.

It makes all the difference. Pleasure, white-hot and intense, sparks out from the impact to every nerve ending in Roman’s body, and he utters a long, low groan of appreciation as the last twinges of discomfort fade, their sharp burn absorbed in a warm, tingling curve of sheerest bliss.

“Better?” he hears Deniz ask shakily, withdrawing just enough to gain leverage for a follow-up at the same angle, hitting his sweet spot straight on; and _oh yes_ , this is so much better that he’s not sure he can draw breath to say so. He’s too busy riding the hot wave of pure lust that rolls outwards from that point inside him, making him shiver and moan and crave more. Still, he manages to pant something affirmative, rolling his hips a bit to encourage more. Deniz makes a deep, satisfied little noise and juts forward again, setting a rhythm with renewed confidence, and suddenly it’s like everything’s slotted into place: perfect motion, perfect friction, Deniz moving eagerly inside him like he belongs there, claiming him with every deep, demanding stroke.

Through his own pounding pulse, Roman can hear Deniz’s ragged breath, can feel it hot and damp against his neck, his ear. It’s almost like a triumph, knowing he’s not the only one affected by this, or even necessarily the most. Deniz is as helpless as he is in this, as driven by the primal, irresistible instinct to possess, rut, claim and _take_. It’s always struck him as silly to think in terms of top and bottom when one holds as much power as the other, or more. The choice to let someone in, he thinks, to let them possess you that way, is a balanced surrender, binding the other as fast as it does him.

“Oh god, Roman…” Deniz curses into his neck, hips rolling on a thrust to create more friction as he shoves inside. Then he bites out another curse when Roman squeezes down on him in response, muscles contracting deliberately in a tight clench around Deniz’s throbbing cock.

“You’re fucking evil, is what you are,” Deniz mutters, nipping his ear, and Roman laughs, spreading his feet a little farther and giving himself up to sensation, to the deep thrusts invading him, slick and wet and so very hot, each leaving him more loosened and ready for the next. The pain is entirely gone now, and the angle is gloriously perfect, hitting his prostate on every stroke until he fears he’s going to quite literally explode, simply scatter apart with no hope or will to fit himself back together.

“You feel… so …incredible,” Deniz gasps out, and then, amazingly, keeps talking, talking like he never does when conscious or in rational possession of his wits: telling Roman how damn good he feels, how good _this_ always feels, how badly he’s wanted to have him all night, just _needed_ to bend him over the nearest flat surface and fuck him senseless until he screams, how nothing’s ever felt like this, _ever_ , and he just wants to do this _all the fucking time_ , because the very thought of Roman naked and panting and begging for it drives him insane.

Roman bites out a choked whimper, incredibly aroused by the rush of thoughtless words against his ear, the smooth slide of hard flesh inside him, the velvet wall covering rubbing against his stiff, leaking cock. As if reading his mind, Deniz’s hands slide off his hips. One circles his torso, palm flat against his chest, while the other curves around his hip to find his erection, fingers closing on it, warm and greedy, tugging back the foreskin to tease at the swollen, slick flesh underneath. It’s all slippery and hot and wonderfully messy, the way Deniz is shoving into him with little curses and whispers, one hand roaming across his chest, fingering his nipples while the other pulls almost roughly on his cock. Roman gratefully thrusts into the slick palm, his cock so full that he feels like he’s going to burst any second. He’s vaguely aware that he’s making loud noises but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. It’s all too good, too insanely intense. The triple sensation of the warm, eager hand jerking him off, of fingers roughly pulling his peaked nipples, of the hard cock fucking into him, lifting him up to his tiptoes on every thrust, is very damn near mind-blowing. He feels weightless and wide open, unable and unwilling to do anything other than take everything Deniz has to give and brokenly beg for more. The lack of a condom, a sensation he hasn’t felt for a long time, heightens the experience just that unbearable bit more: the incredible friction of skin on skin, Deniz’s cock hard and slippery and naked inside him, the velvety-smooth burn of withdrawal and re-entry; the slick noises he can hear from down there, unavoidable and obscenely arousing. Deniz’s hand tightens on his shaft, squeezing almost viciously, and he can’t help but scream, knowing someone might hear him even over the music and not giving a damn. There’s a gust of air against his neck, laughter, ragged with lust. “Look,” Deniz whispers, lips open and wet against Roman’s temple. “Roman… look down.”

He drops his head down, focusing with extreme difficulty, and sucks in air between his teeth at what he sees. In the pulsing light, his cock is sliding through Deniz’s fingers, covered in a shimmery coating of multicoloured, sparkly glitter lube. It looks almost alien, like it’s not a part of him, until Deniz’s hand reminds him that it very much is. He feels it tightening around the shaft, sliding down to cup his balls, trailing glitter everywhere it touches, nearly driving him insane.

 _I’m never ever going to get that stuff off, am I_ , he thinks ruefully.

“Your ass looks the same,” Deniz all but purrs into his ear, and Roman groans, pushing his palms flat against the velvet in front of him and wondering when the clumsy innocent he’s been seducing for weeks turned into this velvet-voiced creature of wicked abandon. “You should see yourself, all spread open and pretty and glittery down here.” Deniz’s left hand leaves Roman’s nipple for a moment to slide between his spread cheeks, teasing the stretched skin just where his cock is pumping into him with increasingly erratic motions. Roman’s breath hitches as Deniz withdraws almost all the way, only the head of his cock still trapped inside. In his mind’s eye, he can see it all too well, Deniz’s cock covered in the same shimmering film of fairy dust as his own, wet and hard and glistening in the light, and his own gaping hole bathed in the lurid stuff, easing the way in a fantastical glaze of colour. His forehead drops forward against the wall, and he’s murmuring something, curses or pleas or both, he doesn’t even know.

Beneath him, Deniz’s hand has closed tighter around his erection, fisting him harder, even as his other hand leaves off teasing his twitching hole. Instead, Deniz’s fingers dig into one cheek and stretch it, pulling, exposing him even more, and then his hips jut forward and up in an almost brutal thrust that sends him slamming all the way back inside, while his teeth close on the delicate skin just underneath Roman’s ear. Feeling unable to even hold onto the wall, Roman lets himself sink back against the solid chest behind him. Deniz’s arm comes up to support his torso as Roman’s head drops onto his shoulder. Deniz’s breath gusts against the side of his neck in irregular bursts of air, hitching when Roman deliberately squeezes down on his cock, deep, clenching motions that push them both that much closer to the edge. He rolls his hips a bit to accentuate the feeling, and Deniz _growls_ into his ear, trapping him firmly against the wall. His chest moves hot and sweat-slick against Roman’s back as he fucks him hard and fast, driven beyond all control. Roman snaps his hips frantically in what little space he has, his cock slapping wetly into Deniz’s eager hand. Deniz plunges into him several times in quick succession and tightens his hand at the same time, slick, perfect pressure on overheated flesh, tight squeeze along his throbbing shaft and then a sly _twist_ just underneath the head, and Roman’s orgasm hits with enough force that he would have collapsed to spend himself thrashing madly on the floor if he wasn’t pinioned securely between the wall and his lover’s body. With a hoarse shout, he bucks up within the tight circle of Deniz’s left arm, back arching tightly as his hips jerk forward. He spurts so hard that he can feel streaks of warm come hit his own chest, sliding wetly back down through the thin film of glitter on his chest and stomach. The rest splatters half over Deniz’s still-pumping hand, half against the green jungle pattern of the wall. The pleasure sizzles along the pathways of his blood like physical energy, hot and so intense it makes his hands clench and his toes curl. It feels like he’s bursting open, like his very molecules are pulling loose to rearrange themselves in a fierce, mad dance of bliss, and only his skin and the anchoring weight of Deniz’s body are keeping him in the shape he’s meant to be. As if in reassurance, Deniz’s teeth dig deeper into his neck, and Roman thrashes again helplessly, his already spent cock twitching one last time. Then he drops back almost gratefully, plummeting from the heated crest of pleasure into the gentler warmth of aftermath, bonelessly open to Deniz’s last handful of desperate thrusts.

Deniz is almost entirely holding him up now, hips jerking without grace or coordination as he rides out the last few frenzied thrusts. Vision still sparking with aftershocks, Roman rolls his head and seeks Deniz’s open mouth. Their lips lock, sliding wetly against and into each other, all hard teeth and slack, gasping lips, both of them too exhausted for finesse. Deniz’s cry is muffled against Roman’s mouth as his muscles tense and his entire body goes rigid. He’s still pumping as his orgasm takes him, pressing his hips forward and rolling them in a tight circle of heat and friction just before he explodes. His shaky rush of released breath is swallowed in their kiss even as Roman feels the hot rush of come spilling inside him; this, too, a sensation he hasn’t known in a long time. Usually it’s all safely contained in the condom, of course, not like this: filling him up in a frenzied gush, wet and hot and messy. Almost, he finds it moving, this unrestrained effusion shared with such utter lack of control. Nothing’s held back; Deniz gives it all to him, and he takes it gladly, treasuring the naked, unreserved trust of his lover’s frantic spill.

Mouth still open against Roman’s, Deniz moans, a low, sweet, ragged cry. Then, after a couple of final, half-aborted thrusts, his body goes limp. Tension flows out of him and his weight grows heavy and boneless against Roman’s back. As his cock slips out, Roman feels come dripping warm and sticky down his thighs. It should feel disgusting, really, but he’s too mellow and soft-limbed to care; his legs feel like butter as Deniz clumsily bears them down to the floor on top of their discarded pile of clothes.

“ _Glitter_ ,” he mutters bemusedly, once he can draw breath enough to speak. He feels Deniz’s shaky laugh rumble against his back. Lips press briefly into his nape, arms closing more tightly around him. He relaxes into them contentedly, cocooned in warm satiation and the lulling, deep pulse of the music from out front.

“I’ll never ever be able to watch Peter Pan again, you know,” Deniz accuses groggily, then adds, “Uhm. Not that I ever did before or anything.”

Roman snorts. “Of course not. Deniz Öztürk is all macho.”

“You better believe it,” Deniz agrees, sliding a hand into Roman’s hair and giving it a playful tug. Lazily, Roman rolls around and half on top of him, fitting himself neatly into the hollows and angles of Deniz’s languid body, their sprawled limbs tangling on the floor. He presses his cheek against his lover’s chest, straining to hear, through the deep pulse of music and his own blood rushing in his ears, the heart that beats beneath.

***

In the neighbouring cubicle, Captain James Hook sits back from the peephole in the wall, rather tastelessly concealed in the shadow of a curling jungle plant. Breathing hard, he pulls off his heavy wig, having already discarded the tricorn earlier. He shakes free his lank, black hair, stuck to his scalp and forehead with sweat, then looks down into his lap, where the evidence of a rather intense wanking session now spoils the immaculate fabric of his expensive breeches.

“Oh well,” murmurs Maximilian Santiago de Castillo von Altenburg, smirking, albeit a bit breathlessly. “That was certainly worth it.”


End file.
